SMILE
by Artistically-Morbid
Summary: After suffering a terrible injury during a case, John is left both emotionally and physically damaged. He is left with scars that will need time and love to heal. Lucky Sherlock is there to give him both. -Major Angst Alert. Be warned, this ain't kiddy suff. Rating may go up later.


**Hey Guys, this is Artistically-Morbid here, bringing you my first Sherlock Series story. Warning, this story contains, gore, violence, LARGE AMOUNTS OF ANGST, swearing, and depending on how I'm feeling, sex. This isn't light stuff, so be warned. Don't come crying to me because you got scarred for life, because I told you in advanced. Also, I'm hoping a few will shed a tear, that is the point of the story. But don't worry, this story won't end in tragedy, even though the genre says tragedy.**

**Anyway, enjoy my lovelies**

**Oh I forgot to mention, but I was glady reminded by a comment I received. I am American, and I have never been to Scotland nor have I met a Scotsperson. So I am merely guessing on how their accent would be written out. I do not mean to offend anyone who is from Scotland or is Scottish by my mediocre attempt at trying to write out a Scottish accent. Please forgive if I have.**

******I do not own B.B.C Sherlock or any of the characters. They belong to the rightful creators, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss**

* * *

_This is my fault._

I was stupid to believe that we would come out unscathed. I was moronic to think that there wouldn't be any damage from this case. I assumed that everything would be fine. That _he_ would be fine. I have never made quite a stupid decision in my life as I have now, letting him go off of his own, not having Lestrade or Donovan or- HELL, even Anderson go along with him. I have always been intelligent; always surpassing the minds of most. But in this moment I feel like the most brain dead person in all of London-NO! In all of the damn world is more like it.

"Well mister Sherlock 'Olmes, we seem to be in quite a 'ot spot now, don' we?" The man is large, with a thick red beard and an even thicker Scottish accent. His hair is receding at the top of his head though and I can almost see the shine of his scalp through the light hairs. His eyes are beatle black and behind them I can read his past; abandoned as a bitty, spending half his life in a run down, dysfunctional orphanage, stealing food from the market streets because they didn't have enough to eat. I can see the long years of abuse he put up with from the people running the orphanage- another indication that his housing was dysfunctional. I can see the worn away scars on his hands where he spent hours working and tending to the fields in his adolescent years. Many casualties with tools, from the scars.

There's still so much more I can see, so much more of his life that I can read, his information becoming a small bit of data that is filed away in the catacombs of my mind. But I am not as focused on him at the moment. My eyes are on the figure tied to the chair, blood oozing from the broken nose and dried blood from the left temple. Blond hair matted with sweat to his face, panting lightly- wheezing more like it. Hazle eyes disfigured and glazed, in an almost half-conscious state. John sits, bound with leather to the chair, his body swaying sluggishly.

_He's been drugged._

"Found yer lil' pet snoopin' round. Don' take too kindly to eavesdroppers." The man- Angus McKenna- says, swinging the large kitchen knife in his hand casually. I have a horrible feeling in my stomach that I try to push down. My pale, cat-like eyes follow the movements of the knife with close intensity. He can tell what it is that has my focus and he smiles, showing me a pair of crooked, yellow-black teeth. I almost comment on his poor use of hygiene but he is still swinging the knife about in a mocking manner so I have no choice but to hold my tongue for once. I am in a bad situation and he knows it.

"I was waitin' for ye to show up, mister 'Olmes. Knew ye'd come lookin' fer yer pet." The man's accent is heavy and loud in the barren room. I admit, the place fits the atmosphere. No furniture save for the chair, no windows, walls and flooring made of metal, one door to go into, only one to come out of. It gives me the impression of an interrogation room, except it's missing the cold metal table in the middle. Without it, there's no space between us. It's me, him, John, and one other man standing guard by the door. If John were by my side, and not drugged and tied up in some chair, we could have made a plan to take them both out. I narrow my eyes in Angus' direction. He's my target, the person who've I've been looking for in this case. He's right in front of me, only two feet away. I can grab him, apprehend him. I could close this case once and for all. But he has the upper hand in this. As long as he's got John, I can do nothing but stand here.

"So now that I'm here, what do you plan to do?" I ask, raising a light eyebrow at the convict. He flashes me a twisted grin, his black eyes sparkling. I cringe; his face makes me want to retch, but I decide better against it. Insulting a Scotsman is never a good thing to do.

"Isn' it obvious mister 'Olmes? Yer gonna let me go now. 'M gonna walk out o' here with my buddies and yer gonna let me," he says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. I frown, the edges of my lips quirking upwards just barely. His request is almost laughable and I wouldn't be trying to stop myself from smiling if it weren't for the fact that my doctor is still his captive.

"And why on earth would I ever do that?" I press on, wondering how far I can push his buttons. I may be able to distract his attention from John long enough for me to make my move. But I have to be careful. One false step and I could send off a landmine and then...then John will...I don't want to think about what may happen.

"Because ye wouldn' live with yerself if anyth'ang happened to the dear Doctor," he purrs, his 'purr' resembling nails on a chalkboard.

"Oh? I wouldn't would I?" I knows Angus is right, but I don't want to seem weak, caring. I am a sociopath. Showing any emotions, even small ones, would pinpoint my weakness. If someone found that weakness, my reputation would shatter, and though I don't care about that at all (I have already experienced that before. It's one of the 'supposed' reasons as to why I jumped to my death, though the tabloids couldn't have been farther from the truth), it is still not good to have a weakness for the enemy to use against me. I need to be a statue. I need to be unfeeling, or else it will be my downfall. Moriarty once found this weakness, and though he and his minions are no more, I will not allow another one to find my inner flaw again. I can not allow myself to leave John again. Not when he still distrusts me.

"Ye Wouldn'," he says matter-of-factly. He places an overly large hand on John's crown of blond hair, his palm bigger than John's face, and shakes the drooping head back and forth. John makes a low groaning sound as Angus presses his thumb into the injured wound on John's temple. I snarl when I hear the soft whimper. "See, ye wouldn'. Not while I 'ave him in my possession. Ye can' do nuthing. Ye'd be devastated if he got hurt becose o' ye."

"So this is a hostage situation isn't it? In return for his freedom, I let you go."

"S'about right," He smiles. _Why am I not surprised?_

"Ugh, Dull."

"Somthin' the matter?" he asks, the smile gone from his face. Now it's my turn to smirk.

"I just expected something a little less repetitive. Then again, I am dealing with someone of a...smaller sized intellect." I thrive in the anger that colours the scotsman's cheeks. He is breathing through his nose, his knuckles white from his tight grip on the knife. The sight of the silver dagger reminds me that I in no position to be insulting anyone. He realises this as well and slowly brings the blade to poke at John's fleshy cheek. I start, my legs ready to move me forward should he think of doing anything. Angus laughs; throatily and with an air of triumph.

"Sorry 'm not smart like that Moriarty fellow, but I am clever enough to know 'ow to strike a bargain. I know when to gamble and what to gamble on. And I know that I gambled good." he looks at me, never moving the hand holding the knife away from John's face. "So what says ye mister 'Olmes. Willin' to strike my bargain? Willin' to trade my freedom for 'is life?"

I glower. I don't associate with hostage dealings. However he has the only important thing that I want- WRONG!- need to protect. He has the one possession that I can't bare to see hurt. He has my only weakness.

He reaches out his free hand, questioning me to shake it. I take a step forward, my eyes falling on John. He's looking at me through half-lidded eyes, a bewildered expression on his face. He is too drugged to really understand what's going on, but even in the midst of his clouded head he manages to babble out what sounds like my name.

I blink once, hoping that he can read the expression in my eyes. _Don't worry, everything's going to be alright._

I take another step forward, raising my hand to shake his reluctantly, when a voice stops me. But it's not a voice coming from the outside, from the room, it's calling from the inside. The inside of my head? It's faint, but it sounds familiar. I recognise it as my conscious. As of late, I've been hearing a lot from my conscious, who I use to never bother to listen to when I was living alone. The conscious sounds an awful lot like John, and for a second I can almost pretend it's him actually talking to me, instead of just a figment of my inner workings. I can almost see the look of anger and determination on his aging face. If he were sober, this would be exactly what he would say.

_'Don't you DARE let him go Sherlock. Remember all the horrible things he did. Remember all the families who suffered because of him. If you let him go, I will NEVER forgive you for this. Don't Sherlock.'_

I can't argue with that. I'm already on thin ice. If John found out I allowed this man, this sick murderer to go, all the trust that he had built up would crumple down again. I can't have that. I pull my hand away and take a step back.

"No..."

"Excuse me?"

"I won't bargain with you. You tortured several woman. You raped and murdered each one, all in a slow and painful death. You relished in their pain, their agony. I will not let you go. You will be apprehended and you will go to court where you will be found guilty. From there you will be sent to America where you will be given the death penalty. I will not help the likes of you," I hiss out.

His face contorts in rage, but then it's gone as suddenly as its appeared, replaced by a madman's grin. I don't like this at all, but I stand firm. I will not falter, even though my insides are churning with a mixture of anxiety and worry. I chance a quick glance at John. He is staring at the ceiling with a ditsy look on his face. He looks like a tiny five year old with that silly smile tugging at his lips. I try to keep that bubbly expression in my head because I have a feeling that he won't be smiling like that for long.

"Yer a smart man, rn't ye mister 'Olmes?" Angus asks, trying to look as innocent as a killer can. I see right through his facade. He twirls the knife in his hand absentmindedly, whistling as he does so.

I don't respond, and he takes that as enough incentive to continue.

"Tell me mister 'Olmes...have ye ever 'eard of somethin' called..._Glagsgow's Smile?_"

I freeze, my eyes widening in horror. He catches it before I can make them unreadable again. He laughs that haunting laugh, and I struggle to not shiver. He takes a step back and then scoots to the right, towards John. Before I can stop myself, I yell out a panicked 'No'.

"So ye 'ave 'eard o' it then? So ye know what happens right? Ye know what's comin'? 'Ow fun!" he hisses sarcastically. I shuffle forward, ready to attack, but before I can step closer, to protect John, two arms dart forward and pin my arms back. I'd forgotten all about the guard. I thrash violently, swinging my legs in all directions, but I cannot land a direct hit to any vital organs. Still I struggle furiously, landing as many bruising kicks as I can manage.

"Fer those o' ye who don' know it, allow me to explain," he says, leaning over John's shoulder, breathing in his ear. I scream something out, but I can't quite tell what it is I've said. I'm seeing red. Nothing but a violent hue of scarlet as the man runs the blade over John's pale skin. John still has that loopy grin on his face. I want to slap him, to snap him out of this state he's in, but more than anything I want someone from the force to hurry up and find us. _How has no one from Scotland yard been up here yet? Why aren't they searching higher up the building? Please Lestrade, please come. I need your help, more than I've ever needed it._

"Ye see, Scottish Folks ain' the type o' people to use guns. Nah, we deal with our problems using fists and knives. Much easier, not as much worryin' bout reloadin' and stuff. Well, see, there's this old ancient type o' torture that is well known in Scotland, 'specially among the bad parts of Scotland. It's where we take a knife, or a shard o' glass, or anyth'ang sharp enough to cut with I suppose, and we gently put it to the mouth," he says, moving the knife closer to John's lips. My body is tired from the struggling, but when I see the knife closing in on his mouth, I am hit by another wave of adrenaline. My jerking and thrashing is starting to wear the guard out and I can see him sweating as he struggles to contain me.

"Oh! But wait, I forgot. It's not outside the mouth...it's inside." Angus grabs a handful of blond hairs and yanks, John's head flying up to look at the Scotsman. It is here that the smile vanishes from his face, twisting into a pained grimace. He winces as Angus tightens his hold of his hair. The large, burly man pries open John's mouth with the blade of the knife, pushing the weapon to the edge of my best friend and flatmate's mouth. I scream out his name, my voice cracking. I am losing my composure. I breathe unsteadily through my nose; my eyes wide, my pupils dilated, beads of sweat forming above my eyebrows and dark curls clinging to the sides of my face. I'm falling apart and I can't stand it.

"Oh but here's the best part. 'Re ye listenin' mister 'Olmes? 'Re ye payin' attention? Becose I want ye to be watchin'. I want ye to see this moment, to look back on it as the day ye made the biggest mistake o' yer life. I want to watch ye squirm!" His eyes flicker back to John, and he says in a half-whisper, half-growl, "What 'appens next is important, so ye better be listenin' too."

He leans forward, pushing John's head so his sparkling hazel eyes are on me now. He still looks unknowing, but there's a spark of fear behind them. I mouth to him softly.

_'It's going to be fine. Just keep your eyes on me. I'm right here. Don't look anywhere else.'_

John's eyes widen, but he keeps his focus on me, or as best he can manage. His mind is starting to clear away the fuzziness, but he's still hasn't registered the situation yet. I can't bare to watch, but I don't have the gall to turn away. I have to keep my eyes on John. I have to be strong in this, because John is like a confused little lamb right now, whose about to make a trip down to the slaughterhouse.

"Ye see, we take the knife an' pull it along the sides of yer face, each one; right, then left. So when we're finished, ye 'ave a big grin on yer face, right up to yer eyes. O' course, it's not a pretty sight, but you can' stop smilin' at least. Like the Cheshire cat." His smirk is filled with sadistic satisfaction and his eyes shine with something of pleasure. I know that it's the look he wears when he tortures his victims. He takes one look at me, giving a test tug to John's mouth, who hisses in pain as the blade cuts against his skin.

"Are ye ready Doctor Watson?"

I'm shaking visibly in my captors arms, trying desperately to telepathically beg Lestrade to burst through the door and stop this madness. But my mental pleas will all be in vain. I can hear no one coming. The only sound in the room is my laboured breathing and my thumping heartbeat.

"Smile Doctor Watson, ye got an audience..."

I hear the tearing of flesh, as the knife rips its way up John's mouth. And just like the tearing of his skin, falling apart as easy as fabric, my self-control, which had been dangling by a thread, tears along with it.

* * *

The case had started as any other. A perfectly normal day. John had been sitting in his favorite chair, sipping his morning tea, while I busied myself with one of my many experiments. The tension in the room was thick, as it had been of recently. Ever since my return, there's been a sort of gap between us. A space which had once been filled, now an empty hole where are relationship once resided. Not that sort of relationship mind you, I meant as good friends. John was always one to correct someone if they believed us to be in a relationship. I found it mildly amusing.

"Cuppa?" he asked, drawing my attention from the microscope. I turned to him, a silent question on my lips. He sighed, pointing to a second tea cup that I hadn't noticed before. "Do you want a cuppa?" he repeated.

I nodded slowly, standing up and making the short stride towards him. He handed me the cup without looking up from his paper and I gently took it from his hands, careful not to brush by his fingers. The last time I showed him any physical contact, he tore away from me like he'd been burned (I only tapped his shoulder to ask if he was going to the store). "Thank you," I said softly and he whipped his head up in surprise. His eyes were wide, and I tried to swallow the hurt that bubbled in my stomach. Why did he have to look at me like that? Like any sort of kind gesture or sentence from me was impossible and unheard of? Still, I can't blame him for being so cold to me. I did leave him for three years, not once letting him know of my presences or even the fact I was still alive.

"It's nothing," he said finally, lowering his eyes back to the paper. I decided to leave my experiment for a few minutes- it's stable right now so there's no worry of the bacteria multiplying- and took my usual place next to John in my black leather chair. From the rim of my cup I watched him, studied, _deduced him_.

Messy unmanageable hair; hasn't brushed this morning and is in need of a trim.

Paling, worn face; stressed and looking much older than he is. Or maybe his age is just finally starting to show.

Red rimmed eyes; possible lack of sleep-or has he been crying? Second glance says a little of both. _Not good._

Lips raw and cracked; Gnawing at them repeatedly. The skin has been broken. Small traces of blood smeared against the side of his mouth from swiping his tongue over his lips.

Toes curled in the carpet; signs of anxiety and nervousness.

Fingernails bitten to the quick; Worried. Brain constantly thinking, wondering, questioning.

Rubbing scarred tissue on left shoulder; built-up tension. Has been gathering there for three years. The exact amount of time that I've been gone.

Conclusion;_ I've really messed up._

Just as I was about to open my mouth and say- well, I'm not sure what I was going to say, but I knew I had to say something- my phone went off. I closed my mouth and dug into my trousers pocket, pulling the black phone out and looking down at the caller ID. _Lestrade_. Sighing, I pressed 'talk' and lifted the phone to my ear.

I had been waiting for a case for awhile now. Lestrade, just like John, was hesitant to trust me again after my disappearance, but Lestrade was much faster at forgiving me than John was. A few months after the cold shoulder, the DI called me in because the yard was stumped on a posion case and they needed me, no matter how mad they were with me. I was able to solve the case and earn a little respect back, at least from Lestrade anyway. The rest of the yard still hated me, maybe even more, but I could care less about their opinion. John however, still seemed too sheltered to let me back into his heart just yet. I knew I had to be patient; this was, after all, my doing to begin with. I needed to take this slow if I ever hoped to win back my doctor's warmth and admiration. Still, it never hurt any less.

"What is it this time?" I asked, cutting right to the point. I knew he'd never be calling to ask me to go out drinking or anything like he would if he were calling John. And even if he was, I would have refused.

"Serial killer. Big one. He's struck six times now. You've heard about it on the news, haven't you?" his voice came out through the faint static.

Yes, I had heard of it on the news. In fact, I'd been keeping a close eye on it since the beginning. Even though I had been let back into cases, reluctant on some officers part might I add, I was only given small cases consisting of robberies, missing persons, posion cases and old files that had been left unsolved. Never anything to do with serial murders. But if Lestrade was calling about this, then he really was stuck.

"You mean about the Serial Scotsman, right?"

"Scotsman? How do you know he's-"

"He leaves his mark behind doesn't he? Every time he kills someone he leaves a little piece behind so those who see it will know it was him. Isn't that correct?"

"Uhhh..."

I sighed and rubbed at the bridge of my nose, trying to stop myself from snapping at him. He is a good friend, but sometime he can be a real idiot.

"Just tell me where the crime scene is and I'll meet you there to explain. Who's on forensics?" I asked, already a vague idea in my head.

"You and I both know who Sherlock," he said.

"Anderson, of course. I'll be there soon." I pressed 'end' on the call button and shoved the cell back into my pocket. I headed for the door, but stopped when I realised John wasn't getting up or following me. With my hand on the knob, I turned to look at him. He had the paper lifted up, hiding his face from me, but I know he had heard my conversation. I felt a tight knot twisting in my stomach and I gripped tighter to the brass handle of the door. "John, are you coming?"

He lowered the paper just enough for me to see his eyes. The usual golden glow that sparkled beneath those pools were clouded over. _He's mentally trying to block me out so I can't read his thoughts or feelings_. The knot in my stomach had become larger and more complex. "You want me to come?" he asked, confused. He hasn't accompanied me on any of my recent cases now that I look back on it.

"Of course, I told you before...I'd be lost without my blogger." I smiled his way, hoping he'd remember those words I had told to him long ago. He remembered them- it was clear on his face- but that didn't make him crack a smile. He merely sighed and stood- a little shaky, to his feet. He hobbled towards me, head still bowed. The smile slipped from my lips and I looked down at my hand. I was holding the knob of the door so tightly, my knuckles had gone stark white. I released them, my fingers tensing at the reduced pressure. I needed to calm down.

"Ready?" I asked, my voice hushed even in the quiet of the flat.

He nodded and we headed off, not a word spoken between us the entire time. Not out the door of 221B, not in the taxi. Everything was still, silent, and tense. Just like it had been for awhile now.

We got there within the next thirty-five minutes, give or take. I stepped out and made a beeline for Lestrade who was chatting with..._Mycroft?_

"What are you doing here?" I growled vehemently. Even though he had been helping me for the past three years; keeping watch over John and giving me places to rest while I hunted for Moriarty's henchman, I still felt that lingering bitterness of childhood rivalry that we always had. That would never change.

"Good to see you too Sherlock. Ah! And I see Doctor Watson is with you today too. How have you been Doctor?" he asked, already knowing the answer. He didn't have cameras in our flat for nothing.

"You already know how I'm doing so lets cut the crap!" he barked back, enough venom to make even iceman Mycroft wince. I felt a new bit of appreciation to my doctor in that moment.

"Well I see how welcome I am here. I only came by to see how the case was going. I admit it has peeked my interest and I thought how splendid it would be to come take a walk in my little brother's shoes and see what was so thrilling about crime scenes. I admit it has a sort of appeal, if you're into that sort of thing." He shrugged, a smirk fighting to make its way onto his face. He looked to Greg Lestrade who was standing about, shuffling from foot to foot as he listened to us quietly from the corner.

"Well Gregory, we'll have to continue our conversation at a later date. I will have Aneta ring you when you are most convenient. Gooday." With that, my elder brother took off down the street, swinging his umbrella aimlessly, a soft tune coursing from his thin lips. A black car pulled up and he gracefully folded himself inside; a few seconds later and the car was nothing more than a black dot in the horizon. One thing to be said about the Holmes family, we were gracious at everything we did.

I looked to Lestrade who was still shuffling about nervously, a slight flush on his face. _Odd_...but I didn't press him on his strange behavior, mainly because my mind was more occupied on the case rather than his emotions and personal life. Of course I would be back at a later date to distinguish them, but right now I had a mission that I was set out to do.

"Victim?"

"Young girl, about the same age as the rest. Blond hair, green eyes, curvy."

"So identical to the five girls before her then?"

"Yes."

"I knew there was a pattern. Cause of death?"

"Multiple stab wounds to the throat and stomach. They weren't targeted at any vital points however, nor were they that deep. We think he only stabbed her enough times to draw pain and then had her bleed out. Slow and painful."

"Of course. And was she-" I didn't finish because he already knew where I was going.

"Yeah, the rape kit showed positive. We think _during it_ was when he stabbed her, that way she would experience the full force of the pain, but still be conscious enough to see everything."

"What kind of sick bastard would do such a thing like this?" John finally said, his focus now on Lestrade and I.

"Isn't it obvious? This isn't the first time this has happened. This sort of murder. A long time ago there was a man known as the Scotsman Stabber- not a very creative title, wouldn't you say? He went about attacking young woman who fit this sort of description," I said, referring to the victim. "He would rape and torture them, then when he was finished, he would leave behind a small piece of cloth in a plaid pattern, letting the police know it was his doing."

"How come?" John asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Recognition of course. He was a psychopath. He got off on this stuff. Raping, killing, having people know he was behind it. He loved the attention and the fact that no one could stop it."

"So he was like you," Sergeant Donovan said, appearing from behind the police tape, her face set in a deep scowl. I ignored her, but I noticed a slight twitch in John's face.

"Ahhh, always a pleasure seeing your bright, smiling face Sally," I purred, my voice dripping with sarcasm. She huffed, and proceeded to ignore me. Not like I was complaining.

"So you're saying it's him? He's striking again?" John asked in confusion, a small spark of admiration flashing through those deep hazel pools. I had missed that look so much that I couldn't think of insulting him for his mistake.

"Well considering he's been dead for eighty-seven years, I would say no. But someone is copying him."

"A copy-cat serial killer?" It was Lestrade's turn to speak.

"Exactly. Lord knows that there are tons of imitators out there. This is one of them. He went to the full extent to copy the Scotsman Killer, right down to the last detail." I began to move toward the crime scene, ducking under the tape, but holding it up for John. He gave me a slight nod of his head as he passed under and I quickly moved ahead towards the gruesome site.

The woman lay sprawled on the ground, her dress torn and pushed up to her thighs. There were gashes in her arms, legs, stomach, torso and neck, and just like Lestrade had described, they weren't deep. Her mouth was gagged, her eyes wide and fearful. I bent forward, taking out my microscope to take closer examinations. What caught my attention was the piece of cloth that was gripped tightly in her right hand. I gently pried open her fingers and recovered the cloth, examining it over. It was plaid; green and orange. A small seal was embedded into the left corner of what I guessed was a handkerchief. I smiled. I had found what I'd been looking for.

"I know where he is hiding out," I said, standing up and dusting my trousers off. The two looked at me, eyes wide and intrigued.

"H-how could you possibly know where? W-we've been looking e-everywhere!" Lestrade asked, his mouth gaping open.

"That's because the place you're looking for has been out of business for the last fifteen years. I know the place because I used to go there with my mother and brother back when I was a young child. It was an old hotel and my mother was good friends with the manager so we sometimes would go on vacation there when we got tired of home. I'd know this seal anywhere. And the pattern, atrocious, but there's no other one like it. This is definitely the seal of 'Ye Ol Scotsland Inn'," I finished, letting the cloth flutter back to the ground.

"Gather your best men Lestrade- the ones that aren't completely incompetent, and head down to North Embolum St. Its address is 1578 Corneius Parkway. Me and John will head down there now. If I recall correctly, it's a rather old, and large building, so you're going to have to split your team up into groups to search each floor. It's very structured though, so I wouldn't worry about it collapsing." With those final words, I turned away, my coat billowing behind me as I strode off. I could hear the footsteps of John following behind me obediently. I ducked under the police tape a second time, and made quick haste to the streets, hailing for a cab. Within seconds one was by my side and I opened the door, allowing John in first before following suit. I gave the address and for awhile we sat in silence. Finally, after a long pause, I opened my mouth and spoke, no longer able to take the silence.

"You've got questions."

"Yeah, just one. Why do you think someone would do this?"

"John, I told you, to gain-"

"Yes, I know that...but just why in general? Why do people kill, if eventually they're going to get caught? Why sacrifice it, when you already know the outcome?" He looked so genuinely confused, his eyes like those of a lost puppy dog. I frowned, turning to the window.

"There are many reasons. Revenge, anger, resentment, mental instability, there are too many to pinpoint. Some do it for fun. Some do it to gain; as of what, it could be a variety of things. Some do it because they have nothing left to lose. It's hard to tell in the end why. Why do anything in life? Why eat? Why sleep? Why do anything? Because there are reasons, but the only way to truly figure out those reasons would be to look into the person's mind, to pick apart their brain. So in the end, we can only wonder why? But we'll never truly figure out in the end. It's just something that people will always question. An answer that'll never be answered. Just 'Why'?"

I looked back at him. His eyes were foggy and I knew he wanted to say something more. He wanted to bring up that day. The day I disappeared. The day I 'died'. The day I left him. He wanted to know why.

"John this is another one of those questions that will never be answered. It will always be left as a 'Why'. Please...don't try to find out, you'll never understand."

"...I could try..."

I crack a smile, but it doesn't reach my gray irises, "No, you can't. Just leave it as it is. Just leave it as a 'Why'."

* * *

When Lestrade finds me, the sight that he walks in upon is one that I rather wish never existed. I am ashamed to admit that my emotions got the better of me, but I will not admit that what I did was wrong or unjust. So when he walks in, I can already imagine the look of shock of his face even before I can see it.

I am sitting, back facing away from the door, so facing away from him. John's head is in my lap and I am using both my hands to cover his cheeks which have been bleeding profoundly for the last fifteen minutes. Lying not too far from me are the two convicts, unmoving. Both of their necks have been snapped, which draws the obvious. Now given the fact that there is a pool of blood near the floor of the overturned chair and my gloves and jacket are soaked in the crimson, added to the two dead man lying very close to me, it isn't hard to draw the conclusion of what happened. It also might help that there is a knife stuck in Angus' hand, pinning him to the floor below, but that was just done for my pleasure.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell did you do?"

I don't answer. In fact, my sole attention is on cooing a shaking, drug-induced John Watson into a state of serenity. My goal is trying to stop the blood flow of the gashes on John's face while gently coaxing him to sleep. He is making soft whimpering noises, those of which resemble a frightened animal. I calmly reach out and stroke his trembling hands, my eyes uncharacteristically warm and gentle. I brush back a stray tear that has fallen from the corner of his eye; a tear not out of fear, but of pain.

"Sherlock answer me...what is going on? What are you-" his voice dies away when he's close enough to peer over my shoulder and see what I'm holding so tightly to myself. "Oh shite..." he breathes, his eyes darting away from the gory site on instinct. He takes a quick glance back at John, then looks towards the two men. "Did they..."

I nod. I am unable to form words. My mind has short-circuited and I can't even form a simple syllable.

"This is Lestrade, we found them. Bring two ambulances...and hurry please. Hun? Yeah we found Angus...what? No he's not been injured...he's dead. Yeah you heard me...look it doesn't matter how, all I want is an ambulance. John's been injured...yes John. Get one quick. I mean it. Alright." Lestrade finishes from the walkie-talkie, placing it back in his holster. He bends down and lays a hand on my shoulder. Without realising it, I curl into a protective ball, my hand cradling John's head close to me. I whip my head to glare at Lestrade, a noise vibrating up my throat. It takes me a minute to understand that the sound is a snarl. A full on animalistic snarl.

"Take it easy Sherlock, I'm trying to help. We need to take him downstairs. An ambulance will take him to the hospital where he'll be treated. Sherlock, please, you have to let me help you." I know it's him speaking, I can hear the words coming from the detective inspectors' mouth, but I am in a state of hysteria that I can't seem to respond rationally. My mind knows, but my body isn't listening to my brain. It's like it's moving on its own accord. I let out another snarl that my brain doesn't tell me to do.

"Sherlock, look at me. He needs help. He needs your help, but you need to let me help. If I don't...he'll die. Do. You. Understand?" It's those words that snap me out of it. My brain has finally taken control of my body and I can think normally again. The most important thing is John's safety.

"Y-yes...of course. I...thank you Greg." I say and he chuckles quietly.

"Consider it me returning the favour for all those times."

I smile.

* * *

It's been two weeks. Two weeks since John's been hospitalised. I've been here since the beginning, staying by his side, even when the nurses tried to force me out. After they caught me the third time sneaking into the hospital, they gave up all together and allowed me to stay. He's been unconscious for two weeks, occasionally waking up for short periods of time, but always only semi-conscious. Then he passes out again, before I can even utter a sound.

I've lost more sleep than usual and I haven't eaten once since the start of the case, which was long ago (well except for the time the nurses had to force an IV into my arm because I looked as skinny as a skeleton, they claimed). My brother has visited a few times, Lestrade usually in his company. They always ask how he's doing and if anything's improved and I always give them the same answer. They frown, pat my shoulder (well Lestrade does, Mycroft just gives me a simple nod) and then they take their leave. Harry came in once, but after taking one glance at him, she left in a fit of tears, most likely to drown her sorrows in alcohol. Mrs. Hudson has been down quite a bit, usually bringing food for me to eat, which I never do (but bless her heart).

It isn't until the third week when he finally opens his eyes and regains full consciousness. I watch those eyes flutter, those golden pools of his staring up at me in confusion. He seems dazed, but I could care less about that. He's finally awake. My John is awake and he's safe. My lips tug into a grin, the skin cracking as it does so. But I don't care. I don't care one bit. My emotions, so calm, so controlled, spill out and I let my guard down in this one moment, because I am so unbelievably happy that he's awake and alright.

"John...John, you're awake."

It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Not what happened before this case. Not what happened during the case. Not even the damage done.

Because he is okay and I can finally _breathe_ again.


End file.
